Another Kind of Life (4 page)

Almost in spite of herself, Cecilia could feel her excitement mounting. She felt grown-up this morning, full of heady anticipation. She sipped at her tea, hiding her excitement
from Mary, who had recently begun to get on her nerves. ‘Ye’re not to do this, ye’re not to do that’, followed by all the stories about how tough life was in the spinning
room, especially for a half-timer starting out. Cecilia didn’t care. She wanted to go to work, to know that she was being a help to Ma. And it didn’t mean giving up school, either.
She’d still be there – Monday, Wednesday and Friday one week, Tuesday and Thursday the next. She felt pleased that she’d be getting the best of both worlds. She didn’t need
Mary’s grim face telling her over and over again that life would be otherwise.

‘Are ye right?’ Mary asked her. ‘Have ye yer piece?’

Cecilia nodded, picking up the piece of bread she had wrapped earlier in a bit of cloth. She stood up.

‘Aye, I’m right.’

Mary folded herself into her long shawl.

‘Time we was goin’, then.’

Cecilia had a sudden pang when she thought of Ma, who had hugged her and kissed her last night, and asked God to look after her precious wee girl. Cecilia had felt embarrassed, felt her toes
curl in her stiff new boots as Ma had come over all tearful. She hoped she was still sleeping. Mary had said they’d not be waking her at half-five unless they had to. Anyway, Ma had said as
much of a goodbye as Cecilia could take last night; she couldn’t bear to watch her red-rimmed eyes fill up all over again.

They hurried to Watson, Valentine and Company, Mary anxious, as ever, about being fined.

‘Hurry, Cecilia, it’s tuppence docked if we’re not there by six.’

Cecilia
was
hurrying; she was easily keeping pace with her sister, although her boots were beginning to pinch. When they turned the corner into Amelia Street, Cecilia almost stopped dead
with amazement. Girls and women were converging from everywhere, swarms of them, jostling and laughing, joking with each other despite the early hour. Some even appeared to be singing. Cecilia felt
her heart lift with sudden hope: these did not seem to be the hard, careless girls that Mary always talked about. These faces were smiling, friendly; many seemed to be in high good humour.

Cecilia kept close to Mary’s side as they crushed in through the narrow doorway, surrounded by a great, heaving mass of bodies.

‘Hold tight,’ Mary muttered.

Cecilia obediently linked Mary’s left arm and together they pushed their way up the giant staircase, Mary’s right hand holding on tight to the narrow banister. The crowd parted
abruptly at the top of the stairs, and seemed to disappear at once into the vastness of the wet spinning room. Almost immediately, the machinery started up, and Cecilia jerked in fright. Her ears
filled with sound, her head buzzed as the terrifying racket seemed to suck up all the air around her. She realized her sister was speaking only when Mary tugged at her sleeve. She watched her lips
move, but no sound could compete with the roar inside her head.

Finally, Mary dragged her away to where the air was a little less thunderous.

‘Ye’ll get used to it soon enough, don’t fret.’

Cecilia nodded, the inside of her head already beginning to feel numb.

‘I’ve to bring ye to the doffin’ mistress, Miss Morris – d’ye mind I told ye?’

Cecilia nodded again, but everything Mary had told her earlier seemed now to have cracked wide open and floated away from her like thistledown. Impatiently, Mary pulled her by the hand towards a
young woman standing in between two spinning-frames.

‘Miss Morris – this is me sister Cecilia. I spoke for her before Christmas.’

The small, neat young woman smiled and Cecilia was flooded with relief. If this woman could stand there and smile while the world seemed to be exploding all around her, then maybe she could get
to bear it, too.

‘Right, Cecilia – are you ready to start?’

‘Aye, miss, I am.’

Her tone was friendly and at that moment Cecilia felt she would do anything for her, for the kindness of her voice, the sympathy of her glance. Mary left, having said something else that Cecilia
didn’t catch. She didn’t care; she knew her older sister would come looking for her when the time was right.

There were five other girls, about Cecilia’s age, looking nervously around them, their eyes never leaving Miss Morris’s face. She gestured to all of them to move closer to her, to
pay attention.

‘Now, girls, I want ye all to listen to me very carefully. I’ll not say anything more than once.’

She pointed out a tall, stern-looking man who was walking purposefully along the pass between the rows of machines, his hands behind his back. His eyes were bright, missing nothing.

‘That’s Mr Thompson, the spinning master. Ye’ll have nothing to do with him until I’ve finished with ye. If somethin’s not clear, or if yer in trouble, it’s
me ye come to.’

She lifted the whistle hanging around her neck.

‘When ye hear this whistle, that’s my signal for yous to run and do yer work. It means it’s time to doff the full bobbins from each machine, like this—’

She moved a handle at the side of the spinning machine and the frames came to a graceful stop. Cecilia felt the immediate relief of even this small reduction in the noise all around her. Then
Miss Morris reached up and shifted a metal weight to one side.

‘This weight’s called a drag – it regulates the tension on each yarn bobbin.’

She took off what looked like a giant reel of thread from its spindle, and laid it quickly into one of several boxes laid out on the floor nearby. Then she took hold of an empty bobbin and
attached the now loose ends of yarn to what she called the ‘flyer eyes’. Finally, she readjusted the drags and set the spinning-frame in motion again.

‘That’s it, girls – pull the handle, doff the full bobbin, and put it into the box beside ye. Then ye’ve got to put back what ye’ve taken off: put the empty one on
the spindle, attach the ends, fix the drag and off yis go.’

She paused, looking keenly at each girl in turn. She tapped on her whistle several times for emphasis.

‘When ye’re called, ye’ve twenty bobbins each to change – ye must be quick, and ye must be accurate.’

Cecilia listened intently. It didn’t seem too difficult, and at school, Miss Graham always said she was a quick learner – deft at her needlework, good at sums and reading. She wanted
to be good here, too, wanted to please Miss Morris. She liked her strictness, felt that if she did as she was told, then she wouldn’t have to feel as lost and terrified as she did now. She
promised herself to stay alert, to do more than her share, to be the best of all her group of half-timers.

By dinner-hour, Cecilia could barely stand with exhaustion. Her head felt light, her brain was whirling in time with the clamour of belts, the rattle of spinning-frames. Her
lungs had had to fight for air all morning: each breath brought with it a sticky combination of heat, steam and the pungent fumes of oil. The greasy stuff that sprayed constantly from the machinery
spotted everyone’s aprons – ‘rubbers’, they called them – with streaks of smudgy black. It left a heavy, sour aftertaste in the air, potent enough to be almost
visible.

When the hooter went, she was bitterly disappointed that it was still only midday.

‘I thought it was home-time,’ she confessed to Mary, so close to tears she could barely eat her piece.

Mary stroked her sister’s hair.

‘It’s just a wee touch o’ mill fever, that’s all – ye’ll be better by tomorrow, I promise.’

Cecilia hoped so. If she did really well under Miss Morris, then maybe she could move on more quickly to caging, laying and spinning. If she could be with Mary, it wouldn’t be so bad. She
hated to admit it, but her sister had been right. It had taken Mary three years to learn her craft and be promoted to spinner: only now did Cecilia take in the bewildering range of skills that had
to be learned before she could occupy a stand close to her sister.

Hours passed, dragging their feet, shuffling reluctantly towards home-time. Cecilia thought she could never endure another day as slow as this one. But she did learn quickly; she was first to
respond to the whistle, first to doff her share of the full bobbins. Miss Morris even showed her, and none of the others, how to judge the exact moment when a bobbin was full. She showed her what
she meant by tension, let Cecilia feel the weight and substance of the drag. More than once, she glanced in Cecilia’s direction and nodded her approval. Without it, Cecilia felt she would
have withered and died that very afternoon. The heat and humidity had made her feet swell, and she was terrified that she would not be able to take off her boots when she got home.

Only the thought of Ma made her keep her tears in check. She couldn’t let her see how bad it had been, how despondent she felt. Mary had been so kind to her when the day ended, letting her
rest her head on her shoulder all the way home on the rattling tram. She hadn’t uttered one word, not one syllable of reproach or ‘I told you so’.

Cecilia couldn’t wait to crawl into bed, could hardly keep her eyes open to drink the tea Ma had just brewed. She had a moment of cold terror, just before she slept that first night, as
she imagined her whole life spinning out in front of her, yards and yards of years like yarn, with no relief from the airless whirl and blunder of huge, malevolent machines.

I
T
WASN’T FAIR
.

Just as May was feeling happy in school for most of almost every day, just when she had her own best friend beside her, everything had to change.

‘You have your sisters,’ Mama had said firmly. ‘They’re your best friends.’

That was true, too. But Kathleen Mulhall was her best friend in a different way. And now, maybe she’d never see her again.

‘Where are you going?’ Kathleen had asked her. Her eyes had been wide and scared at the prospect of anybody going far away. She could not conceive of there being another world beyond
Dublin, a world which had its own roads and schools and houses and people. Everything outside the small boundaries of what she knew filled her with misgiving. When they drew their maps in geography
lessons, Kathleen always put a big red dot carefully where she thought Dublin was; the rest of the outline was blank, except where little blue marks radiated from the coastline to indicate the sea.
She drew carefully and well, but she had no curiosity beyond her own place, her own streets.

‘Belfast,’ May said, feeling a faint thrill of superiority despite herself. ‘Papa has new and important work there, Mama says, so we are not to make a fuss about going.’
She paused. ‘I’ll show you on the map if you like.’ She said this shyly, not wanting Kathleen to feel bad. She was a much better geography student than Kathleen was; in fact, she
was much better at everything, except, perhaps, mental arithmetic and making people laugh.

Kathleen nodded.

‘I’d like to know where you’re going.’

May wetted her finger and traced a rough map of Ireland in the chalky film of dust that always settled on their classroom desks overnight. Even though she hated leaving Kathleen, she would be
glad never to see Sister Raphael again. Ever since that day last year when May had been locked in the cupboard, Sister Raphael had kept a tight-lipped distance from her. She rarely addressed her
directly. May must sit still and work quietly: she instinctively discerned the shadow of Sister Paul which hovered around this unspoken arrangement. It was her, May’s, duty never to speak out
of turn, a duty she gladly accepted. She never, ever wanted to be locked in a cupboard again. A tiny white scar just above her right eyebrow was reminder enough of her fall outside Sister
Paul’s office, her fall from grace. It was the only outer sign of her crime and punishment. May used to touch it from time to time, running her fingers over its bumpy surface. It gave her a
peculiar kind of comfort, a reassurance that, once she continued to be good, she need never feel such blind and breathless panic again.

She nudged Kathleen, who was keeping a sharp eye on the classroom door. She jabbed her forefinger at the crude map she had just drawn in the dust.

‘See the teddy bear’s head?’

Kathleen nodded gravely.

‘Well, just across from his eye is Belfast.’

She drew a line from Lough Neagh to the coast and placed Kathleen’s finger on the exact spot where Belfast should be. She assumed a teacherly, properly solemn expression. Kathleen was a
far better mimic than she, but May liked to try from time to time.

‘Papa says it’s a very busy town, and an important port.’

They laughed together at her pompous tone.

‘Will you ever come back?’

Kathleen was twisting a tendril of thick black hair around her fingers. In and out, in and out. May used to watch her, fascinated, as she spent hours doing just this, as though weaving her
lessons into her memory. Sometimes her fingers moved at great speed, almost desperately, and May would know then that she was finding something difficult.

She felt filled with a sudden kindness towards her friend. After all, she, May, was the one going away on a big adventure. To start with, there was the thrill of taking the train from Amiens
Street Station, and snaking all the way around the coast to Drogheda, passing through Dundalk, listening to all the unfamiliar place names until they arrived at Belfast. And Hannah and Ellie would
be with her too. May couldn’t help feeling excited, although it wouldn’t do to show it, either here or at home. Not yet, anyway.

But poor Kathleen was being left behind, and she had only brothers. May didn’t want her to be sad over losing her friend, as well.

So she nodded.

‘Yes. Mama says we will be back and forth, mostly to see Grandfather. I’ll ask to see you, too.’

Kathleen grinned at her then.

‘You’d better,’ was all she had time to say before Sister Raphael swept into the classroom, the skirts of her habit swirling chalk-dust into the air around her, some of which
floated gently, suspended in the streams of light that shivered through the classroom windows in the early hours. It was as though her long black habit was breathing sudden life into all the dead
words that had fallen from the blackboard during yesterday’s lessons.